It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  Everywhere in the maze of corridors were compartments, like telephone booths. I ducked into one, and when I pulled the door closed, a dim red light came on, illuminating a coin slot on the wall.

  This was the safest I’d felt since Raider had said, “What are you girls doing hanging around here?”

  After what seemed like five or ten minutes, but was probably only seconds, I was tired and wanted to sit, but there wasn’t a stool. The air turned stuffy, and there was a burning smell of disinfectant and something else familiar that I couldn’t place—bleach, maybe.

  My token went easily into the coin slot and a foot-square trap door slid open. I looked through scratched plexiglass onto an elevated stage that was surrounded by the backs of other booths. The trap doors of most of them were closed, but a few were up and men’s faces were visible in dim red light. A tiny G-string-clad woman was performing a tired hootchie-coochie dance in front of one of the open peep squares.

  My trap door whirred closed, and I was alone again. I put another token into the slot and the woman came over to my booth. When she pointed at a narrow opening, I pushed a twenty through, and her eyes widened with appreciation.

  I stood there in the smelly booth watching as she hootchie-coochied to some tinny sounding Latin music. After a moment she pantomimed to me. The trap door slid shut, and I put in another token. She was waiting for me, gesturing that I should take out my penis and masturbate while she performed. I was overwhelmed by revulsion, and with my next breath, the smell of disinfectant over bleach made my stomach heave.

  It’s not bleach. It’s semen.

  My peep-square whirred closed again, but instead of putting in another token, I pushed open the door with my shoulder, trying not to touch anything with my hands, and stepped into the corridor. An elderly black man with a mop splashed a quart of watery disinfectant into one of the booths as I fled down the stairs, past the magazines, the cashier in the pork pie hat, and the bouncer with the gold tooth, and out into the grimy sunlight of Forty-Second Street. Standing there, I had a revelations. I have to learn everything I can about the man who’s sharing my house.

  Heading west on Forty-Second Street I walked the thirty crowded blocks to the Klinger Gallery. Harold Klinger, a friend from my days at Weatherby’s, would be manning the shop alone at this early hour. He had gone independent the same year as I and now specialized in Asian art and antiquities, operating quite successfully from his own Madison Avenue gallery. We often traded business favors, and I sometimes used his private sales offices when I needed to meet with a client. Now, fourteen of the twenty-three paintings from Ray’s Edison’s Electric debut were stored in the back, including the four that had been recently sold and were awaiting transport and delivery.

  The gallery was empty except for Klinger. He was occupied with a pile of auction catalogs he’d stacked onto a table along the wide corridor leading to the back gallery. He was probably doing an appraisal. He grunted slightly as he settled into the chair that he’d pulled up to the table.

  “There’s coffee, Bradley. Help yourself.”

  I thanked him, made my way through the back gallery into the office, and pulled the door closed behind me. Ignoring the coffee, I sat in his desk chair with the telephone on the desk in front of me, unsure where to start. Then, because of its irony, I remembered a name Ray had mentioned. The prison doctor’s name was Freeman. By calling directory assistance for Virginia, I got the main number at Lorton and when the prison operator answered I asked for Dr. Freeman. After some confusion I was put through to a secretary, where I expected further delay, but I as soon as I mentioned the name Ray Martin there was a pause and then she said, “Hold on. I’ll put you through.” A male voice came over the phone. “Freeman here. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Bradley,” I said, surprised to be actually speaking with him. “I’m calling about a former inmate by the name of Raymond Martin. Do you remember him?”

  “Of course I remember him. I’ve been expecting this call. Has he killed someone already?”

  I nearly dropped the receiver.

  “No,” I stammered.

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “He gave me your name as a reference.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Freeman said. “Anyway, his employment has to be with AFTAR, as a condition of his parole.”

  There was static on the telephone line, followed by a long silence. This wasn’t going at all like I’d planned.

  “Who is this?” he asked. “Why are you calling?”

  I thought hard for a moment, then tried honesty.

  “I’m a new friend of Ray’s—an art dealer. We’re sharing a house. I met him shortly after he was released but I don’t know much about him, or about his . . . stability. He mentioned your name . . .”

  “Well, obviously you’ve figured things out or you wouldn’t be calling. He may have artistic talent—I’m no judge of that—but I do know he’s dangerous.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was serving a sentence for killing a man. He stabbed him in the heart.”

  “Yes. But he said he didn’t do it. He was framed.”

  “Right. The entire prison is filled with innocent men.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “It’s not a personal grudge against Martin, despite what he might think,” Freeman said. “He was mentally ill long before he came to Lorton. Confinement is all we could do. The ones I’m angry at are the people who think that because the man can paint a picture he should be free. Have you ever met this guy Leonard Hirsh?”

  “The famous painter?” I asked, dodging the question.

  “I warned him that Ray Martin shouldn’t be paroled, but he obviously wasn’t listening. In fact, he was insulting. He told me I didn’t understand the artistic temperament.”

  Someone had apparently come into Freeman’s office or, perhaps, had been standing there all along. I heard him say, as an aside, “I’ll be off the phone in a minute.”

  Then, speaking to me, he said, “I have to go now.”

  “Wait, please. You said he’s mentally ill. What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Bradley.” But he didn’t hang up.

  “I’m sharing a house with this man. What should I do?”

  “That’s easy. You should move out.” Then he took pity on my predicament. “Have you talked to his mother or his sister?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t know their names or where they live.”

  “Polly and Edith Martin,” he said. “Edith’s the mother, but you’ll do better talking to the sister. I think she’s a schoolteacher. She’s the one who’s always tried to take care of him. She lives in Louisa, Virginia. Maybe she can tell you what you want to know. Meanwhile, keep your distance from Martin. Good-bye.”

  And he was gone.

  Mentally ill? The prison doctor had warned Lennie and he hadn’t listened?

  I called directory assistance again and got the number for Edith and Polly Martin in Louisa. Apparently they lived together. I dialed again.

  “Hello,” said a female voice.

  “Is this Edith or Polly Martin?”

  “This is Polly. Who’s calling?” The voice was well bred and Southern.

  I was surprised. Despite what he’d claimed about his exalted foster father, and Freeman’s revelation that Ray’s sister was a schoolteacher, I’d expected her to sound . . . poor.

  “I’m a friend of your brother’s.”

  “Of Raymond’s? Has he hurt someone?” she asked.

  “Uhhh . . . no.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “He’s up north,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Still, you kept sending him packages,” I said. “Could I ask you a few questions?” but she’d already hung up.

  I caught the next train from Grand Central to Dover. The Wagoneer was waiting where I’d left it in the station park
ing lot, and by three-thirty I was driving into Schoolcross. The estate felt deserted as I left the Wagoneer outside the garage near the Big House and walked to the Quaker Cottage. I needed some sleep.

  Three hours later, the sound of tapping on the front door carried into my bedroom, waking me. The luminous numbers on the clock radio read seven-fifteen p.m., and darkness filled the room. The knocking was soft but insistent, and I made my way downstairs worried, reminded of the night Lars had been looking for Mario.

  As on that night, the door to Ray’s studio was shut, but this time when I opened the front door Tamara was standing there, distraught.

  “Something terrible has happened,” she said. “Lennie’s called the police. They’ll be here any minute. Have you seen Ray and Nora?”

  “Ray and Nora? No, I don’t have any idea where they are. Why did Lennie call the police?”

  Tamara looked at me suspiciously.

  “You’re protecting Ray, aren’t you? I know they’re together,” she said as she moved past me into the cottage.

  Oh, my God! I thought. Lennie must have called the police because of Raider.

  “Protecting Ray from what?” I said, stalling for time.

  “From me finding him with Nora.”

  She opened the door to Ray’s studio, and, with a decisive movement, clicked on the overhead light. Nora and Ray were asleep together on the sofa, her head burrowed into his shoulder. The blanket that covered them only reached their ankles, and the toes of her paddock boots and his hiking boots were sticking up in the air from the end of the couch.

  “I knew they were together,” said Tamara shrilly.

  They must have been sleeping unusually soundly not to have been awakened earlier, but now Ray sprang up, sending Nora crashing to the floor. She looked around and blinked her eyes in the light. She obviously didn’t know where she was.

  “What?” said Ray. “What do you want?”

  He was standing next to the table where the carving knife still lay. The clothes he had worn last night were at his feet, but he was dressed in his blue jeans and the black turtleneck Lennie had given him.

  “It’s me and Tamara, Ray,” I said. “Tamara’s upset. She says Lennie’s called the police.”

  Nora appeared to be getting her bearings but was still shielding her eyes.

  “Please turn that off,” she said.

  Ray, too, was squinting from the ceiling light.

  I switched on a reading lamp, pointed it toward a corner of the room, and flipped off the overhead light. Their relief was palpable, but now the room was dim and there were strange shadows on the wall.

  “What time is it?” asked Nora.

  “Seven,” I said.

  “Seven!” said Ray and Nora together. “I’ve been asleep for hours,” said Nora.

  Tamara was devastated at finding the two of them asleep together, and tears welled in her eyes. I was more than a little surprised myself, and I had the benefit of knowing they’d both been awake all night.

  “First Lars and now this,” Tamara said, gesturing at Nora, who was still sitting on the floor. “How could you?”

  “I was exhausted,” Nora said. “What about Lars?”

  Tamara turned on Ray. “I know that exhaustion, Ray Martin.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Ray said. “Something unusual happened.”

  “Oh, really? What?”

  Ray looked at Nora then at me. He wasn’t about to tell Tamara about the incident with Raider. He waved his arm at her dismissively.

  “I don’t owe you any explanations,” he said.

  “I’ll bet something unusual happened. I can guess what it was. Nora, how could you? You’re my best friend!”

  “Tamara,” said Nora, “stop acting like a little fool. Nothing is going on between Ray and me.” Nora got up from the floor and sat on the couch. Her face was still wrinkled from sleep but alarm sounded in her voice when she asked, “What about Lars? Is he all right?”

  “No, he’s not all right; he’s dead,” said Tamara. “Claude Rhodes found him behind the Cockpit with his head smashed in. Everyone thinks Mario did it when they had that fight last month.”

  Nora’s eyes went wide with shock. She and Lars were friends, and she’d been worried about him ever since he’d disappeared. Tamara seemed equally distressed about finding Ray and Nora together.

  “I can’t believe this,” Tamara said. “You’ve had your eye on him from the moment he got here, haven’t you? You’ve been using me to cover your own tracks. Lennie teases me about my so-called biological clock and wanting to have a baby. He doesn’t even see it in his own wife!”

  “Shut up, Tamara, our friend is dead!” said Nora. “And any conversations you and I had were supposed to be private.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Tamara. “Private talks between girlfriends. Have you figured out how to get what you want from him? Is that why you wanted your books back? You said you loved a challenge, but really, Nora . . .”

  “Shut up!” said Nora. “How can you think about that now? And you’re twisting what I said all around and making it sound . . . dirty. You know it wasn’t like that.”

  “Have you two been talking about me?” asked Ray.

  Nora was on her feet now and moving toward Tamara.

  “It wasn’t like that at all, and you know it,” said Nora.

  Tamara didn’t back down. “I only know what my eyes tell me, and they say you’ve been mooning around like a bitch in heat ever since he got here.”

  Nora raised her hand, and if Tamara hadn’t jumped back, she would have slapped her.

  “You’re disgusting,” Nora said. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Get out of here.”

  “You’re the disgusting one,” said Tamara from the studio’s doorway, “you and that ancient husband of yours. He doesn’t care that you’re with Ray. I tried to tell him. He doesn’t care where you are or who you’re fucking.”

  “Get out! Get out right now and take that filthy mouth with you.”

  “This is a very sick situation,” Tamara said, staring at the dirty clothes by Ray’s feet, and then at Ray.

  The shirt with the bloody sleeve was on top of the pile. Tamara pushed past me and out the studio. Nora also moved to the door.

  “Tamara’s upset right now and saying anything she can think of to hurt us,” she said to Ray. “I’ve got to find out about Lars. It can’t be true.”

  Then Nora, too, was gone from the house.

  After a moment, I said, “Hey, Ray, do me a favor? Move away from that knife? Knives make me nervous.”

  He looked down as if he’d never seen it before, then moved to the middle of the sofa and sat. “What a way to wake up,” he said.

  “Lars is dead!” I said. “I can’t believe it! And the police are on the way! We need to find Lennie.”

  As I headed for the door I said to Ray, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “It’s not my business. Go if you want, but keep me out of it.”

  I arrived on foot at the South Stable in front of the Cockpit as two Dutchess County sheriff’s deputies emerged from a police car. The night was dark except for flashes from its emergency lights. Their faces were alternately lit up and shadowed darkly as I approached. The taller of the two spoke first.

  “Mr. Hirsh?”

  “No, my name is Bradley. I live in one of the tenant houses.”

  Lennie came walking up hurriedly from behind the South Stable, a flashlight in his hand and a grave countenance on his face.

  “My God, you took your time getting here,” he said to the men.

  “Are you Mr. Hirsh?” asked the one who’d spoken to me.

  The shorter, stockier, of the pair said, “The directions were bad. We’ve been looking all over the county for you.”

  “He was found over there. Follow me,” Lennie snapped as he headed in the direction of Lars and Mario’s former cottage. The two deputies didn’t move. When Lennie saw that they weren’t following, he re-traced h
is steps, furious.

  “A man is dead! Are you at all interested?”

  There was something infuriating about the phlegmatic attitude of the deputies, especially in contrast to Lennie, who was tense and manic.

  “Yes, sir. We’re interested,” said the shorter deputy calmly, “but if he’s already dead—dead a long time, I understand—we’re not going to do any good by rushing up to a crime scene.”

  Lennie contemplated this for a moment. He struggled to control himself, and, to my relief, when he finally spoke his voice was taut but composed.

  “I’m Leonard Hirsh. I’m the owner of the property—the person who called.”

  “I’m Deputy Bunch,” said the shorter of the two. “This is Deputy Bond.”

  They both shook hands with Lennie and gave him their business cards. In a moment, a rescue squad ambulance and an unmarked sedan pulled into the turnaround. Flashing lights lit up the area around the South Stables and the Cockpit like a pinball machine, and crackling voices came from a radio somewhere.

  A man and woman dressed in Dutchess County Rescue Squad uniforms got out of the ambulance, joining a middle-aged man in a gray suit who had emerged from the passenger’s side of the sedan. Another man got out from the driver’s side, opened the trunk, and took out a bag of equipment. The man in the suit introduced himself as Detective Ritter and also gave one of his business cards to Lennie. The man with the equipment was introduced as Officer Callan.

  “What have we got here, Mr. Hirsh?” Ritter asked, after they’d shaken hands.

  “One of our tenants, Lars Thornburg. He’s dead, maybe for weeks, but we just found him. His body is around back.”

  “You found him?” Ritter asked.

  “No, it was a man who works on the place, Claude Rhodes. He came into my studio about an hour ago, all excited. He said he’d found Lars’s car closed up in the stable. We never use the stable for anything except storage. Lars was supposed to have left the property weeks ago, so Claude looked. He found Lars’s body under the woodpile, not fifty yards from the apartment in the renovated part of that smaller building next to the stable,” he said, pointing at the structure.